


Except they didn't

by LadyOblivion



Series: Livi's Fire Emblem Drabble Series [1]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Seisen no Keifu | Fire Emblem: Genealogy of the Holy War
Genre: Don't worry, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, also Ares trying to kill Seliph is most definitely not the best way to deal with emotions, but like, just two boys being supportive while I go ham on the narration, nobody gets hurt, physically at least, very mild
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-08-06 00:00:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16377563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyOblivion/pseuds/LadyOblivion
Summary: It was such a strange happenstance, a series of events that shouldn't have happened but nonetheless did, all because no one could act the way they should've. Not all of them good. Not all of them bad.-After receiving Eldigan's letter from Nanna, Ares has some serious life introspection left to do. Good thing Seliph will allow him to take out his frustrations on someone. As bad as a choice as that seems.





	Except they didn't

"It's just—" Ares paused, eyes and nose scrunching up, hesitation clearly etched on his face. Whether it was at his newfound knowledge or the simple task of relaying his feelings to him, Seliph did not know. He decided against asking, instead leaving Ares to his own meandering devices. He'd tell him whatever he was ready to tell him — "difficult to digest."

Placing himself in Ares' boots for a second, Seliph could see himself truly understanding. The foundation of how Ares had been raised and had lived up until now was built solely on the battle at Augustria and an entitlement to revenge on a man who was now one with the scorched earth he'd met his honorable yet foolish death on. Few were the times Oifey or Shannan or Edain felt like sharing much about it, yet he knew for a fact that his father had never betrayed Lord Eldigan, but knowledge was never universal and for one as Ares and his mother, having never set foot on Augustria since Grannvale first seized it, the actual truth was muddier than ever and carried by whispering winds that tended to lie more often than not.

In a sense, Eldigan's own sense of duty betrayed him by robbing him his life, leaving behind nothing but a weeping wife, a miserable sister, and a sword too heavy for his three year old babe to even understand the importance of.

For a second, Seliph allowed himself to picture what it would feel like if he ever came to be told that Arvis hadn't been the one behind the massacre at the Battle of Belhalla, or how Leif would feel if someone came into his life claiming King Travant hadn't brutally murdered his parents at the Yied Massacre. It wasn't a pretty thought, and something deadly simmered in Seliph's heart - yet he steeled himself all the same. This wasn't his place to be dwelling in hypotheticals when searing yet cold truth had just shattered one of his trusted comrades apart.

"Are you angry?" He simply asked.

Ares turned to him, perplexed, eyes fixated upon the young prince carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. The young Scion of Light, destined to reconquer Grannvale and take Jugdral away from the clutches of the Empire. The young prince with too much hope, too many _people's hope_ falling on his shoulders to be worrying about a broken man he would've been struck down by in less favorable situations. That simply was the sort of kindness Seliph exuded. Ares allowed himself to relax, if ever so briefly, hand sliding off of Mystletainn's hilt. "I suppose I am, in a sense," he mused, finally recognizing what it was that he actually felt after all this.

It certainly helped to clear his mind of some of the fog, but not entirely. 

"Raise your sword, Lord Ares."

By the moment Ares turned back to Seliph, the  young prince was already in a battle stance, calloused and bandaged hands holding a silver sword that had somehow stood the test of time, despite every nick and imperfection in the metal, despite the wear born from one too many grinds of a whetstone. A scattered shine that spoke of careful polish, even in the face of heavy use. As if it had been kept alive through sheer will and care alone.

Ares wished he'd ever been cared for as dearly as Seliph had cared for his father's sword.

* * *

 

They started slow, Ares overpowering Seliph at every step, blow after blow after blow, blowing off steam and anger and entrusting all his sadness and frustration on Mystletainn. Seliph could do little more than block, dodge, or parry, while Ares lost himself in the spiral of emotions he wished he could hold back. He just let himself loose, let himself go. Flashes of anger, memories passing by of a miserable life, watching his mother decay as she tried her damndest to provide for a son she could barely take care of anymore. _Anger, humiliation, sadness, pain._ All, thoroughly locked away in the recess of his heart for years and years, leaking out and threatening to overflow if he didn't continue pushing harder, _harder._

_Pursue him, kill him. That dastard Sigurd robbed us of everything! Augustria was not enough, but he robbed us of your father as well, Ares._

He let them all go. Let himself be carried away by the sweeping river of emotion and for a second, he could see a mix of concern, empathy, _fear_ , all etched on his training mate's face. One mistake and Ares would have no way to fix it, too far gone to hold himself back even against the so-called Scion of Light. It was scary. Invigorating. It was the match he'd craved for all his life, the chance to slay the son of the man that had betrayed his father.

Except, he hadn't.

Sigurd had been an honorable knight and friend to the Lionheart until they both met their untimely ends. Ares' mind knew this, but somehow his body refused to listen. This was not the spawn of his father's enemy, but years of training for this moment made it impossible to hold back any ounce of strength his tired and ragged body held even after a long day of warring through the mountains of Thracia.

Yet, even such vast amounts of energy were not limitless, were not infallible. He was starting to feel the drain of the earlier adrenaline kick, spurred on by anger and sadness, ebb away. They felt as ephemeral as the cold of a night in the desert the moment sun kissed your body with whispers of warmth in the early morn. What had he been fighting for, all this time? The hate he had been groomed under now seemed so petty, so utterly _childish_. Hindsight was a cruel mistress, for now, body growing weary and sentiments departing, he could no longer feel as if his past self had been fighting for a righteous reason at all.

Because he hadn't.

That was the moment it dawned on him, like the merciless desert sun breaking through the horizon bringing promise of a new day, but also the uncertainty of what would be to the previous night. Hesitation, in its purest form, was his downfall, for Seliph was no fool and Ares had long since dropped a facade of stoicism. And in one swift moment, as quick and as silent as the whiz of an arrow passing by, Seliph retaliated.

Suddenly, it was Ares who was on the defensive, tables shifted in one fell swoop as he struggled to fend off fierce and merciless strike after strike. Swords clattered against each other, laborious raises as if meaning to parry, but Seliph allowed him no leave, no respite. His arms started to cry out in unpitying ache as he kept on the endeavor to _block, block, block._

He lost track of time. His aching body suggested hours, days, years, yet the sensible parts of his mind, the ones not consumed by despair, cried against such an assessment. It had been mere minutes; where in blazes had the stamina of the so fabled Black Knight, carrier of the Demon Sword Mystletainn, gone? It angered him, yet he found such a response far weaker than his earlier outburst, as in one small motion on Seliph's part, twisting his blade alongside Mystletainn's edge and sending it careening down to the floor, resting atop the dirt and dead grasslands of Thracia, his so famed skill and ruthlessness aided him no more than bravado would aid a small child staring war at his doorstep. 

And so, Seliph was the one to bring an end to their deadly dance. Ares disarmed, it would be as easy as slitting a newborn's throat and ending their life there. And why wouldn't he? Ares had just struck, with full on intent to kill. Or, at least, no intent of stopping. Truly a crime punishable by death.

Except, he didn't.

Anyone else in his boots would've, but not Seliph. 

Anyone in Eldigan's place would've allowed his king to die.

Anyone else in Sigurd's stead would've betrayed Eldigan, but _he didn't._

The laughter bubbled and burst out of his throat before the tears did and he fell to his knees. Maybe that's what he should've done from the start — cry it out, maybe with Nanna, maybe with Lene, maybe alone with Mystletainn as his sole company. And yet...

He did not.

It was such a strange happenstance, a series of events that shouldn't have happened but nonetheless did, all because no one could act the way they should've. Not all of them good. Not all of them bad. 

One of the good ones was Seliph reaching out to him, heavy arms embracing him as he kneeled in front of Ares and simply allowed his warmth to envelop him. No words, no request for explanation. Just an unspoken _it's fine_ , their swords left aside as for a moment they allowed themselves to be more than their fathers. To be _themselves_. Not even just the Scion of Light and the Black Knight, no longer that bleak and dreary color palette. It was just Ares and Seliph, allowing themselves some sort of comfort away from the expectations and ghosts of long gone people.

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, I wrote the bulk of this in around some 4 hours of inspiration after reading through another Genealogy fic that motivated to take to the keyboard again.
> 
> I'll post it before too long and I start hating it.


End file.
